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Sunday Evening

I took the carefully-boxed pie out of the van last, even though I didn't have that much else to bring in. Boyce had given me a short list of things he and Brady had wanted as a stop-gap till their next trip to the grocery. They had use of what I jokingly referred to as "the company truck," which was neither extravagant nor covered in garish advertising. As I'd explained to Emmanuel, the ranch wasn't really a business enterprise; the truck was used to haul feed and supplies as needed, as well as to keep the twins from being more or less marooned out here. The hitch on the back attached to the horse trailer as-needed, and a local mechanic kept the poor metal beast from self-destructing, or at least he'd managed to so far.

I'd checked in with everyone before heading into town. Emmanuel, Brady, and Boyce were busily making some additions and changes to the lower area of the barn, somewhere below their own apartment. The extra pair of forepaws helped make for far lighter work, the twins said, and they were grateful for the help. The otters assured me that they'd take care of our guest's lunch, probably something as simple as a salad, so please make something unhealthy for dinner. I reassured Emmanuel that I'd remembered his request for something special for dessert, and that I'd return bearing delights from Byron's Bakery ("Where Your Good Dough Buys Our Best Dough"). It would seem that otters could squeal for more than just brie.

The IGA-affiliated grocery store in Buford has a very good deli, and a sandwich with a large iced tea went down well with the book I was reading. I much preferred the feel of a real, physical book in my paws, but my ebook reader was more convenient for me to carry along when running errands, having a meal out, or (my least favorite location) waiting at the doctor's office. I'd always loved Charles Dickens, and_The Man Who Invented Christmas_ told the story behind the creation and proliferation of A Christmas Carol, the first and most popular of Dickens' Christmas stories. I hoped not to turn all professorial on my dear otters, but I couldn't imagine not sharing the tale with them before our next wintertime together. I always took Christmas week off from the spa, and it's during that week that I really do feel the presence of family, horses and otters alike. Emmanuel was right about that one.

At the bakery (strategically open from just-past-church-letting-out till just-before-dinnertime on Sundays), I was greeted warmly by the proprietor, a charming red panda who never seemed to tire of my nickname of Lord Byron. He was always a gentle curiosity for me, having spent time as an apprentice to several fine pastry chefs in France, Germany, and Italy, yet having returned to this small town in comparatively nowhere, settling in with his wife to raise a family and provide the best pastries I'd ever experienced. He did a great business with the locals; the grocery store bakery had managed to survive by being slightly cheaper, being convenient, and offering a few "local varieties" (e.g., donuts that, after a single day, could be used as hockey pucks). Anyone with taste buds would pick the best first.

"Something special for your guest, Gavin?"

I was caught completely by surprise, although I shouldn't have been. "I'm pretty sure Brady and Boyce haven't been in, so I'll have to guess it was Shane."

The panda demurred quietly. "I suspect it started with him. As the old song says, I heard it through the grapevine. Or perhaps it should be called the bush telegraph."

"Not nearly as song-worthy, that one." I shook my head. "What did you hear?"

"One of the yowens is certain that you're playing host to a seven-headed dragon. Another called that idea stupid because dragons only have one head, if they're normal." The firefox chuckled softly. "I have no idea what started all this, and it's really not my business to ask."

"I'm playing host, as you put it, to a Pegasus. He's a client and a friend. According to Shane, he's also an unnatural abomination, or something to that effect."

"Pegasi are rare beings," Byron offered gently. "I caught a glimpse of a Pegasus from a distance, somewhere down_un rue de Paris,_where it is said the whole world will, at some time, pass by. I doubt that many people in these parts have ever seen one. No wonder rumors of mythical creatures popped up." He paused, considering. "You said client; you met him through the spa?"

"He's a good bit over two meters tall, and he's both equine and avian, so he needs special treatment from a manedresser and massage therapist. We've become friends over the years."

The panda moved to his dessert case. "I'm only going to make one assumption, Gavin, and it has to do with pie fillings."

That made me laugh. "I did have apple in mind, yes. I keep an apple-scented liniment for him at the spa. It's a joke we share."

"I hope he likes what I do with apples." A carry box was produced and folded into shape as quick as thinking. "If I may ask... is it true that he can fly?"

The comment made me blink. How did...? "Was that part of the rumor going around?"

"I did hear at least a little comment to that effect," Byron offered cautiously. "The yowens who thought of dragons had said something about wanting to watch the skies to see if they could spot it in flight. I thought you should know that flight was mentioned, since you've told me he's a Pegasus. I don't much care for rumors, ever since Patricia was called my beard."

I nodded slowly. The rumor mongers in a small town can be vicious. I'd had more than my share of commentary, perhaps because most of the sins they accused me of were correct. I had to draw the line at the implication that I engaged in wild orgies with the otter twins and/or the stallions at my ranch. For Byron, it was his excellence at "a female's job" and the amount of time he'd spent in all those "for-eyen countries" that made him a suspicious character. Even after he and Patricia had born two fine kits, there were still whispers that I heard third-paw. We laughed them off between us. Although the most vocal in a small town are the most vicious, they are the least represented; we made a rough guess that not one in fifty of our neighbors believed in the nonsense, nor did they act upon it with any real effect. Byron sold his baked goods, and the twins (being straight) gave riding lessons to the yowens, and no one had organized a lynch-mob bearing torches and pitchforks to roast the old gay bear at the stake. Some townsfolk even dared to wave at me on the street, no doubt risking getting cooties.

The firefox wrapped twine around the box so quickly, it looked like a magic trick. He tied up the string in a neat bow and set it on the counter. "Anything else, Gavin?"

He was polite enough not to ask for details about Emmanuel, although I think he wanted to know, and I knew that he could be trusted with those details. The place was currently empty, but that could always change at any moment. I glanced at the screen door to the shop, letting in a little air from the warm afternoon, and no doubt likewise able to let a little conversation out into it. "I think I'll stop while I'm ahead, Lord Byron, and thank you." He rang up the transaction and, as I passed over my money, I caught him mouthing the words_call me._ I smiled and nodded, taking my pie back to the van and setting it carefully where it would be in no danger of being damaged. There are just some things that should not be risked; wrecking Byron's creations falls into that category.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Setting the pie carefully on the counter, I went about separating the rest of the groceries. Brady had asked for a few usual, nonperishable goods (did all otters love white chocolate chip cookies, or just these two?); the requested gallon of milk went into the fridge, and they'd probably take it back with them after dinner. It was a little early to begin preparations for my particularly unhealthy dinner, so I found myself at loose ends for a short time, and the sensation unnerved me slightly. It was unusual for me to feel anxious at the country house. This was, after all, my sanctuary from the rest of the world, all the things that cause unease and uncertainty. And it would be again, once the other horseshoe had dropped.

Ah, wit in the face of adversity; I've learned something from the English after all.

I shook my head and walked toward the stable. According to requirements of tax law, the computer room and everything in it had to be used exclusively for business, or else it wasn't deductible, particularly if the income was considered to be a hobby. However, with rare exception, there's not a computer in existence that didn't have some flavor of solitaire or other game on it, and with an Internet connection, one could access and play damn near anything one wished, and Auntie IRiS could go hang for it. I never abused the privilege too much, ensuring that the computer wasn't used for surfing naughty bits and dating sites. The twins had their own computers and IP addresses; they could do what they wished.

No sounds of construction came from the old barn, so I guessed that the renovations had ceased long enough for a dip at the pond. I was tempted to join them, but I'd forgotten my swim trunks, and Emmanuel might still need more time to talk. Best leave them be till dinnertime.

All five horses were relaxing in various places within the enclosure. Even Hot Shot seemed content simply to wander about and stay out of mischief for a change. (I was pretty sure it was a trick, but for now, it was all right.) Although I saw the horses, the fence, the field, my mind pulled forth the image of Emmanuel's flight. I relived the vision of those incredible wings unfurling to their full glory, pulsing, pushing, painting the sunset sky with a glory of quill-strokes unlike any poet or philosopher had ever been able to harness for himself. I held that picture until it finally blurred and ran down my cheeks, despite my best intentions. My paws did their best as kerchiefs, then fell back to my sides as I managed to get myself into the stable.

In the small office, I set myself into the chair, fired up the computer, and let my mind wander over the various games that might help distract me for an hour or two. Yowens would tell me that playing some sort of combat game helps paw-eye coordination and lets you vent your anger by blowing the heads off zombies. For me, at least, violence only begat violence, and relaxation insisted on something to stimulate the brain through expanding thought or, failing that, shutting down thought entirely with something happily mindless. Some variation of Peggle came to mind.

As I waited for the electronic beastie to rouse itself from hibernation, I cast a lazy eye over my desk, finding the usual semi-clutter along with a pad of paper that bore scribbling in a paw I'd not seen before. Not mine, not the twins... it had to be Emmanuel's doing. I remembered he'd said that he wanted to connect to the 'net at some point. It was terribly rude of me to look at his jottings, and although I couldn't prevent having observed a great many numbers and various abbreviations that could have meant almost anything, I didn't make effort to read it closely and decipher its cryptic meaning. Turning the notepad over, I tried not to think about it too closely. Numbers usually meant money, unless you're a mathematician, and my fear was that he was calculating what surgery and recuperation would cost. I pushed the thought away and went online to play Auditorium. I nudged the speakers up a little to enjoy the music and lost myself for a time.

* * * * * * * * * * *

When I finally reached the end of a respectable level (what the game called "Act Four" out of fifteen), I shut down the computer and checked the time in the proper country manner: I looked at the sky outside the window. It was darker than I'd expected, and it occurred to me that either I'd played longer than I'd thought, or my idea of impending rain was turning out to be a decent prediction. I left the office just in time to see Brady leading Sony into the stable.

"Tut, tut, it looks like rain." He grinned at me, knowing I'd get the reference.

"Looks like I'd better get to fixin' dinner, Christopher Robin."

"Gavin?" He paused, as did Sony, both looking at me steadily. "Are you all right?"

"I hope to be," I replied a bit too honestly. I smiled quickly. "Apple pie for dessert."

I stepped past the young otter, patting him on the shoulder as if everything were just fine. I doubt either of us believed it.

Outside, I had a better look at the sky. The clouds rolling in were just the first wave of change, although there was a sense of wetness in the breeze that told me of more than mere humidity being moved around. I wasn't sure about how severe it would be, but rain was a certainty. Seemed something of a shame for Emmanuel's last night to be the clichéd dark and rainy one.

Glancing back to earth again, I saw the Pegasus inside the fence, once again shirtless, walking Hot Shot back toward the gate. The colt seemed happy and excited to be with his winged cousin again, and I noticed that Emmanuel had the lead wrapped carefully around one forepaw while the other reached down to rest on Hot Shot's neck.Fool me once, I thought, and had to smile. I raised a paw in salute, and I saw him dip his chin, a smile on his muzzle. It was then that I saw his wings unfurl slightly, as if they too wished to be acknowledged. I felt the expression freeze on my face as I lowered my arm slowly and turned to go back into the house. I had my doubts about being able to eat.

I was more or less on autopilot around the kitchen. Unhealthy meals are the easiest to fix, as little to no higher-level thinking is involved. The irony is that this was supposed to be "comfort food," generally speaking, and I wasn't feeling particularly comforted. I sliced and buttered the French loaf from the grocery store for its perversion into easy-baked cheddar cheese bread (I wouldn't desecrate Byron's finely crafted baguettes with this treatment) and set a large pot to boil water for the spaghetti. I was trying to distract myself further, readying the shallow pasta bowls and gathering flatware, when the front door opened with surprising force. I looked up sharply as Emmanuel called my name and rushed into the kitchen. He stopped long enough to take a breath and blurt out, "I'm keeping them."

The admission was so sudden that I had trouble making my brain process the information. He put his forepaws to my shoulders tenderly. The look on his face confused me, since it seemed so somber.

"Brady told me how upset you looked; I couldn't wait another moment. Gavin, I'm keeping my wings. No surgery. They're staying."

I collapsed against him, tears of relief against his bare chest. He put his arms around this old soppy waterworks of a bear and waited patiently for me to regain myself. "Thank you," I managed eventually. "Thank you, Emmanuel."

His lips touched the top of my head with great tenderness, and he lay his chin over my shoulder. "I wasn't trying to be mean," he whispered. "I had a few last things to work out. Gavin, I had no idea how much I was hurting you. I'm so sorry."

"It's all right now," I managed. "It's okay."

I felt him pet my back, then squeeze once before pulling back slightly to look me in my watery eyes. "There's details to work through, and a lot of puzzle pieces left to put together. But I want to keep my wings. Whatever else happens, Gavin, I want to keep them." He leaned in to kiss my forehead, tickling a little with those sweet velvety lips. "Thank you, Gavin." I felt and heard him chuckle. "And I thanked Hot Shot too."

Even to my own ears, my laughter sounded slightly hysterical with relief, and I had the feeling that Emmanuel felt the same way. The sound of briskly boiling water behind me brought us back to the necessities of getting dinner ready. I separated from the embrace and dumped spaghetti into the pot, getting another pot ready for the not-so-secret sauce. Ever the helpful guest, he offered to help, but I waved him off again. "There's little that can spoil this recipe. Take up your post at the bar and keep me company. I have the feeling that there's more to your decision than you've told me."

"There is, but it really can wait for after dinner, or maybe even during, if we're not all stuffing our maws." I glanced up in time to see the grin on his muzzle. "Like I said, details. We really are celebrating my future, and I want Boyce and Brady here, to get their input on it as well."

"You've made some new friends around here," I smiled. "I hope that will give you incentive to visit whenever you'd like."

"It's a wonderful getaway, and no mistake. I'll have to drive here in a disguised vehicle; I'm not sure how they'd like me, in town."

I was reluctant to tell him about the rumor mill. "I think most folk would welcome you, honestly. Very few are like Shane. They can be noisy, but they're still in the minority. I'll take you around to meet all the good folk. You'd like Lord Byron."

Explaining the reference took up enough time for the otter twins to make their appearance, assuring me that the rest of the family was in the stables. "I think Jason knows there's rain coming," Boyce mentioned, "but no indications of worry from the rest."

"They're usually very good predictors of thunderstorms," Brady explained to Emmanuel. "I think we're in for a good rain, at a guess, but I think the flash-bang won't get too close, if there's any at all."

"Who wants to toss a spaghetto?"

Emmanuel blinked. "Okay, what did I miss?"

"Still the best way to test whether the spaghetti is al dente," the elder-by-eight-minutes twin padded into the kitchen to perform the honors. He looped one strand with the pasta server, plucked it out of the boiling water and, after letting it cool slightly, flung it forcefully at a smooth kitchen cupboard door. It stuck. "Good to go, boss."

"That part, I recognize," the Pegasus allowed, "but what did you call it?"

"Singular Italian noun," Brady grinned. "Gavin taught us well. 'Spaghetti' is plural; a single strand is a spaghetto, like a raviolo and a linguino."

"No one uses it that way anymore, of course," I added, draining the water from the unquestionably plural group of pasta noodles. "I love to pick what nits I can, just to keep the yowens on their toes."

"Great education for trivia games," Boyce chimed in.

Emmanuel joined in the easy laughter, welcome relief to us all. In short order, bowls of pasta were covered in the best no-beans chili that the Stagg company has to offer, and the melted cheddar bread was properly distributed to "sop up the leavin's," as my relatives from the south might have said. Quite the opposite of my fears, I had quite enough appetite to join in with the rest. The conversation stayed light until the contents of the bowls had been safely transferred to our bellies. About the time that we'd all pushed back from the table a little, I raised my glass.

"I'm not sure if it's appropriate to toast with iced tea," I said, "but I'm willing to take the chance. Besides, it's a great segue. To the future!"

"The future," all chorused, and after a happy quaffing, Emmanuel set down his glass and looked slightly embarrassed.

"Guess I've got the limelight, eh?"

"You've had our attention all weekend," Brady teased. "Don't stop now!"

Another chuckle passed between us. My equine guest glanced downward first, then looked at each of us in turn. "I've told you that I'm keeping my wings. I want to thank you all for helping me make that decision. You showed me how to think of the issue differently."

He looked at me warmly. "When I first told you, Gavin, it was because my agent had said I'd be more bankable without them. But it was really a case of a long-term solution to a short-term problem. Becoming a model is difficult enough; perhaps one in twenty might be a model, and of those, perhaps one in a hundred can actually make a living at it. Out of that small number, a very few indeed can keep modeling past the Beautiful Years, being able to make the transition from 'pretty' to 'mature' and beyond. I don't know how many years I might have as a model, and to start with, all I could think about was how to increase my value in the here-and-now. I didn't think about what it would really mean to lose my wings.

"And then came a knight in bear armor," he grinned, "to take me away to a magical land where I met friends and family I didn't know I had. I found words and hearts to trust."

"And fences to whitewash," I added.

"And chores to do!" Brady cheered.

"And a pond to swim in!" Boyce chorused.

"And, last but absolutely not least, a colt to trick me into..." Emmanuel paused, raising a finger. "No. That's not true. He didn't trick me. He_showed_ me. He let me find what I never even considered looking for on my own."

A brief quiet settled over us for a few seconds. The twins, seated to either side of the equine, each reached out a forepaw to his shoulders. I chanced saying what I think we all felt: "It was magnificent, Emmanuel."

Softly, he cleared his throat and allowed a small smile to play about his lips. "I don't think any of us was quite ready for that one. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't make the difference. It made me stop to think about all that my wings really are. It made me stop thinking of them as separate." He looked at each of us again. "And here's the part where I'm going to ask your help with all this."

"I think you'll have it," Boyce nodded. "Ask away."

"Short form?" He looked at me. "I want to apply for a job."

By the time my benumbed brain actually started working to specs, Emmanuel had outlined several factors of a plan that explained what those numbers on the pad next to the computer were all about. He could still drive into the city for modeling and photo shoots (Brady and Boyce were enthusiastic in their certainty that they could cover for whatever days Emmanuel would be called away), and he was willing to take a minimal salary till he passed a probationary period. With my permission, he could sleep in the house until further renovations of the old barn could provide his own rooms; until then, a temperature-controlled storage unit in the city could hold the majority of his things far more cheaply than the cost of current apartment.

"Between my savings, lower cost of living, and whatever salary you could provide, I think I could keep working here long after my modeling days pass me by. And, if you'll pardon a bit of selfishness on my part, it would be a way for you to nudge Shane out of the picture."

A smirk crossed my muzzle before I could stop it. "Forgive me saying it, but that part of the deal is particularly attractive." I took the liberty of mentioning Shane's wage, and the Pegasus nodded.

"I'd be glad to take less, since I'll have free rent."

"Lousy negotiator," Boyce stage-whispered across the table to his twin.

"I still think I get the better side of the deal," Emmanuel grinned. He sobered a little and looked at me. "This is not a decision to be made quickly, Gavin. I don't expect an answer tonight. I just wanted to outline the idea. If nothing else, I'm taking a longer view, like we talked about this morning. No matter what, I'm keeping my wings. This is one way -- the best way for me, I think -- to keep going when my modeling career stops."

"You mean_if_ it stops," I corrected gently. "I understand the odds, but I also know that others have beaten them, and I think you'll find that you've got no less chance... with your wings, and not in spite of them."

The silence stretched, head and heart accorded in outcome, contrasted in process. Sheer courtesy demanded that I say something, and nothing seemed to want to make itself known. At length, a chuckle escaped my throat as if desperate to make up for my ill manners. "I guess I'm not quite as playful and spontaneous as I could be. I don't want you to think my hesitation is any form of rejection. I really do want to just say 'welcome aboard' and be done,but--" I raised a forefinger as Brady seemed on the edge of cheering. "We have to work out details, to make sure. Let me say two things that are important right now. First, Emmanuel, I want our discussions to be not about 'if' but about 'when' and 'how,' because I really want this to happen. I think it's a great idea."

"Thank you, Gavin," he almost whispered, a blush seeming to rise on his sweet caramel-colored cheeks. After a moment, he asked, "What's the second thing?"

"Who wants pie?"

* * * * * * * * * *

In theory, I suppose, there could have been other topics of conversation during dessert, but it wasn't a very strong likelihood. It didn't take long for me to figure out that Emmanuel must have begun hatching this plan with the twins earlier today; the three of them seemed to be coming up with solutions faster than I could come up with questions. This was not a bad thing, in and of itself; it merely served as a reminder of just how sneaky otters can be... and Pegasi too, if this were any indication. The discussion was uplifting if only for the prospect of ridding the premises of the negative energies of a certain unnecessarily conservative puma.

The twins were ready to excuse themselves for the night, to leave me and Emmanuel to continue our "contractual negotiations," when I felt my fur shift slightly, all over. It was a signal that I was familiar with, but not one I'd paid too much attention to when in the city. Without a word, I moved to the linen closet and picked out the two largest thick-woven blankets that I could lay paw to. As I carried them to the door, the otters nodded. "We'll go fetch ours," Boyce acknowledged. "Meet you there."

"Trouble?" Emmanuel asked.

"No. It's a pretty reliable feeling I get -- may be some thunder in this upcoming storm after all. The blankets are a precaution, in case we need to stay a while. Shouldn't last long, though, I would guess."

"Need an umbrella?"

Brady looked at him. "Otters. Duh."

He looked right back. "Dry blankets. Duh."

"He gotcha there, bro," Boyce laughed. "Plastic bag for the win."

"C'mon," I patted my guest on the shoulder. "We have just about enough time to dash between the drops."

As it turns out, I almost made a liar of myself. Emmanuel grabbed the blankets from me and made a dash for the doors, beating me there by a good ten or fifteen seconds. I was hardly soaked by any means, but the blankets might have needed a little drying out if I'd kept them with me. Once inside, I latched the double-doors, making sure that the pair at the far end was open for the twins. For all I know, they'd strip to the fur and dance in the rain for a while, but it would help them to get their own plastic-bagged blankets inside.

The troop was still calm. Rain never bothered them, unless it got particularly loud or when it was accompanied by thunder and lightning. All five poked their heads over their stall doors when the overhead lights came on. Nighttime visits weren't common. Showing great intuition, the Pegasus breathed deeply a few times, regaining his calm before walking down to see to Hot Shot, who provided something of a come-hither nicker to his winged savior. Perhaps Emmanuel was learning faster than I thought, or he was simply amused at the sound. Either way, he greeted the colt quite happily enough, and the yowen seemed delighted at the notion of a slumber party with his cousin.

I made sure that none of the others felt neglected, and although there was a little shifting in the stalls to accompany flicks and swivels of nervous ears, there was no pawing or stamping going on. It was clear that they, too, had felt that atmospheric shift that indicated a storm-front brewing, and they weren't overjoyed at the news. The Pegasus and I kept our voices soothing, just very slightly louder than the sound of the rain beginning to drum the roof. We were visible, audible, and conciliatory; our charges showed no particular expression of fear or worry just yet.

After only a few minutes, the twins moseyed in through the far doors, each carrying a large plastic bag and wearing nothing but a sheen of rain. They secured the doors, set the bags aside, and produced a tip-to-tail shake that was genuinely impressive. Bringing towels out of the bags, they managed to get themselves sufficiently dry to don the clothes that they'd also packed for the occasion.

"Are we decent?" I intoned.

"Never," Brady replied. "We are always fantastic."

I grinned at Emmanuel. "You still haven't signed any paperwork yet; you sure you want a job here?"

"Would you rather call in Shane for tonight?"

"Bite your tongue."

He pet Hot Shot's neck tenderly. "Don't worry; I'm still on vacation time. No charge."

I certainly couldn't argue with that.